


Squill & Spoon

by milkandhoney



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Chance Meetings, Draco Malfoy On Probation, Drama, H/D Food Fair 2018, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Muggle Food, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Reformed Draco Malfoy, Romance, Supper Club, Talking, Theo Nott Likes Horses, Wizarding Club, Wizarding Society (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-07-18 05:31:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16111850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkandhoney/pseuds/milkandhoney
Summary: In order to complete the terms of his probation, Draco's mind healer must deem Draco reformed enough to re-enter wizarding society. Squill & Spoon, a new wizarding supper club could be the perfect opportunity — that is, if Harry Potter would stop showing up at his table every. Single. Time.





	Squill & Spoon

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[20](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1E_uQJlIb5C6nLnMg8VrUUnrKtyx16is1FLbyvoxLEik/edit).
> 
> This is my first fest and my first completed story (ever)! I'm excited to be able to contribute to a fandom I enjoy after lurking for so long. Thank you to my amazingly generous betas, [](http://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/profile)[**spock**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/spock), [](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mordor/profile)[**mordor**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mordor) and [](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bossybookworm/profile)[](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bossybookworm)**bossybookworm**. Also thank you to the mods for being understanding and putting this fest together!

Pansy lowers her sunglasses. "I don’t understand."

"It’s a form of treatment." Draco climbs to his feet, removing his soiled gardening gloves. He knocks them against his trousers a few times, eyes focused on the ground. "It starts at the end of the week, and I have to do it if I’m to return to any sense of normalcy. There's nothing more to say about it."

"Says you," Pansy says, leaning over the side of her deck chair. "Mind healing is a form of treatment, Draco. Meditation. Counseling. All things you’ve done because the Ministry led you to believe it would help your case." She pulls her shades off entirely, mouth pinched. "And now these dinners?"

"Dining with others has long been proven to have a whole host of restorative properties for witches and wizards," Draco finds himself reciting stiffly. He's back in his room, then, running a finger for the millionth time along the torn pamphlet he’d managed to spellotape back together, if only just. "In the magical world, communal meals serve as both a means to replenish magical and mental energy, as well as a way to amplify one’s emotional resonance sensitivity." 

"Thank you, Granger." Pansy stifles a yawn in that overtly, forcefully delicate way of hers. "If you happen to run across my best friend, would you be so kind as to send him back, please? A little less dull this time?" 

"You’re the one who asked." Right now, Draco doesn’t mind the comparison to Granger. It’s reassuring to have some confirmation that he hasn’t completely lost his mind. "Wasn’t it your idea to be open-minded?"

"Most things end up being my idea when you’re skeptical of them."

"I’m sure I don’t know what you mean." He focuses on the dents his boots make as he treads across the grass, spying on Pansy out of the corner of his eye, hyper aware of her eyes following his movements. Forwards a ways, then back again. "There wasn’t a doubt in my mind, not until I mentioned it to you." 

"I don’t know why you mentioned it at all," says Pansy, her voice curling stiffly around every word. "A nice meal once a week isn’t about to clear your conscious. If it could, darling, I’d expect every Pureblood from here to Albania to be in far better shape."

She reclines, sunglasses back on her face. "Present company excluded."

Draco stops short, freezing in the middle of the grass. "I'm not trying to clear my conscious."

Behind them, Theo snorts loudly. He’s leading his horse through the garden, careful to avoid the newly planted snapdragons, who gnash their teeth as he passes. Draco whirls to face him. "I'm not!" he insists.

Theo’s eyes bounce from Pansy, who isn’t paying him any mind, to the horse, which neighs in a way Draco can’t help but divine as sarcastic. "Go on, then.," Theo says. "Tell us what it’s really about." 

"What it’s not about is a guilty conscious." Draco hates repeating himself, but if ever there was an occasion, this warrants it. "These dinners are about leaving my house!" He stabs a finger in the direction of the Manor. "Being able to walk ten feet without seeing an auror, or house elf for that matter, tracking me with their bulbous eyes." He widens his own as he says it, fingers miming binoculars to emphasize the point. "It's about me not becoming some reclusive squib who doesn’t know his wand from his prick -- I want to use my bloody wand at my own discretion!" 

Above their heads, the canopy of trees sway gently. Theo’s hands continue their measured strokes along the Granian’s pale coat.

"Is that all?" He turns back to his horse. Draco is of half a mind to pick up his abandoned trowel and throw it at him.

"It makes sense, doesn’t it?" Pansy draws her legs up, the question sounding anything but. "You're a terror when you've gone too long without a wand, or a wank."

Draco curls his lip but doesn’t respond. There have been plenty of wanks. Therein lies the problem.

"Don't make fun of him Pansy, I imagine Draco thinks himself a martyr." Theo rubs Persephone’s muzzle affectionately one final time, before leaving her to graze freely, strolling over to seat himself on the end of Pansy’s chair. "He’s finally braving the outside world. Something we’ve all had to do, mind you, without the most influential wizard in the world personally pleading on our behalf." 

Draco crosses his arms. He’d been  optimistic to think they’d manage the conversation without mentioning Potter. Potter, who hadn’t written him back, not even once. 

"If you'd actually done anything during the war, Theo, you could take my place. Suffer for me."

"Pretty sure staying out of it counts as 'something’ And I'm already suffering." The corners of Theo’s lips twitch once, twice, before they finally bleed over into a smirk that stretches across his face. "I’ve been here over a month and yet still not a one of your house elves has revealed themselves to know how to make a decent cuppa."

Pansy shakes her head. "None of that explains why the Ministry insists that you do this. You’re in no danger of energy loss if you barely touch your wand." She stares intently at Draco, watching his face for confirmation. "So that does mean …"

"You lack emotional resonance?" Theo finishes for her, never failing to slip a knife between Draco’s ribs when presented with the opportunity.

"No. According to Headland’s records, others have reported I’m quite demonstrative. It’s just not as," Draco pauses, considering, "positive," he decides, "as they'd like it to be. Which is why he refuses to sign off on any of my release forms until I can prove otherwise."

Pansy and Theo exchange a glance. Persephone whinnies somewhere off to their left...

"You know, maybe this supper club is what you need," Pansy says, after a moment. "Theo's here because of his father, but I had to practically sign my life away to the DMLE for chaperoned visits. I’m positive they’re only allowing it as some kind of test."

Draco frowns. She hasn't said anything he doesn't already know. "Your point?"

"My point," Pansy continues, "is that if The Ministry’s in charge, they can’t allow anything to happen to you under their watch. No matter how demonstrative you are, it’ll be a consequence free environment. Use it to your advantage."

"She’s right." Theo stands to his feet. "You need Headland to sign off, so convince them you’ve learned your lesson. Potter may have sent you your wand, but they’ll never lift the wards if you can’t suck it up and manage this."

Draco cuts his eyes away. It's a mistake. The back porch that leads into the garden proper falls directly into his line of sight, as does Auror Abernathy. There's a glass in his hand, no doubt something drained from Mother's favorite bottle of port. Abernathy catches Draco staring and holds his drink aloft, his expression smug.

"You spent five weeks with The Order rooting out the last of the dark lord’s followers," Theo continues, failing to see Abernathy’s entrance or unbothered by it enough to censor himself should his voice carry, though Draco isn’t sure of which, "and yet they’ve still got you jumping through hoops."

Draco stalks back to the plot of dirt he'd left overturned. He picks up his trowel and thrusts it into the soil with unnecessary force, relishing in the minor violence. He can’t exactly blame any of them for any of this, he knows, but the knowledge doesn’t do much against quelling the urge.

"The terms of your probation say you need to have an escort should you leave the grounds," Pansy reminds them. "Are aurors accompanying you to these dinner as well? Robards hasn’t mentioned anything."

"I’m not sure." Draco glares down at his hands, lips pulled into a thin line. He forgot to put his gloves back on and his hands have quickly become filthy, the dark of the soil staining dark under his nails . "It doesn’t matter. The whole affair is ministry approved; they can’t very well keep me from attending, can they?" 

 

+++++

 

Squill & Spoon meets on Saturdays.

Draco descends the staircase, his polished shoes clicking on the marble, at the same moment Abernathy chooses to enter the foyer with Narcissa Malfoy on his arm. The Auror’s gait is brisk and efficient compared to his mother’s elegant glide as the two come to a stop in the center of the room. Aware of their eyes on him, Draco rolls his shoulders back, his spine held ramrod straight   as he approaches. 

"Draco." His mother leans forward, allowing a brush of his lips to each pale cheek.

"Mother."

He draws back and her eyes remain trained on his, darting with frequency towards Abernathy’s direction. Draco offers nothing more than a vacant smile as he wordlessly continues to admire her silk robes, though he does feel a pang in his chest at the way her mouth tightens.

"Darling," she says with restraint, "Auror Abernathy’s kindly offered to accompany me in visiting your Aunt Andromeda, once he returns from seeing you off."

"Has he?" Draco takes his mother’s hands in his own, smoothening his thumb over the delicate ridge of her knuckles. When her eyes soften, he can’t resist giving her hands a gentle squeeze. "Are you sure that's a good idea? The two of you have only been on speaking terms for a few weeks."

"Of course. If you can brave the public’s hostility, the least I can do is extend an olive branch to my own sister. She returns the pressure of his hand with her own. "Take care tonight. Summon Coopey if you need anything."

His cheeks grow hot. "Mother, please.. I'm not a child."

"We should be going." Abernathy steps forward, the authoritative tone of his voice, brooking no room for argument. 

Swallowing his irritation, Draco  bends to give his mother a parting kiss before joining  Abernathy's side. He mechanically places a hand on the other man’s shoulder, limiting their contact to strictly what was necessary. Abernathy is taller than most - one of the few wizards taller than Draco himself. The feeling leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, an irksome reminder of his unusual disadvantage.  

The air around Draco shivers and the room fades, the foyer’s marble floor dropping away from beneath his feet. The familiar jolt of apparition wraps around his middle, and he clenches his eyes shut, pops of color flashing in the darkness behind his lids. Then it's over, and Draco’s body comes down. Hard.

His arse is in a bin full of apples.

"Draco?" calls a soft voice.

Draco snaps to attention following the direction of the voice. Strange lighting makes his vision swim, and Draco blinks rapidly, shielding his eyes until they can adjust. The light recedes to reveal Luna Lovegood staring back at him, her moony eyes wide with concern. Abernathy, all but forgotten, appears at her side looking entirely too amused by his display for Draco’s liking. 

Jaw clenched, Draco hoists himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bin to jump down "Hello, Lovegood."

"Draco," Lovegood says warmly, offering  a hand to steady him, which he pointedly ignores as several apples roll across the floor. 

Abernathy stops a particularly enterprising apple with the tip of his boot, flicking his wand to clear the rest. Once done, his face returns to its usual stoic expression. "I'll return in a few hours time, Draco. Miss Lovegood." He nods politely and disapparates with a pop.

In the silence that follows, Draco brushes himself off, cursing Abernathy and his faulty aim under his breath while checking the back of his trousers. He’s conscious of Lovegood watching him intently, craning her neck like an exotic bird, her colorful earrings large and garish. There’s a beat, and then another, and in between each of her curious looks, Draco feels the tension in his shoulders building, waiting to see who will speak first. "I assume you’re here for supper."

"Oh, yes," Lovegood nods. "Squill & Spoon has become quite popular. Daddy publishes an advertisement every month in _The Quibbler_. Have you not seen it?"

"I don't-" Draco starts, and catches himself, his expression incredulous. He coughs. "I must have missed it." Walking past her, he takes a moment to examine their unusual surroundings. Several bins, similar to the one he’d landed in, fill the room, fruits and vegetables neatly arranged and polished to a high shine. The walls are lined with more produce, shelved and , individually packaged for convenience. 

"Is this a... muggle grocery store?"

"It’s a Sainsbury. Isn’t it lovely?" Why Lovegood chooses to interpret the curl of his lip as anything other than blatant disgust is a mystery.She gives his arm a small tug, her grip surprisingly strong as she leads him down the nearest aisle. "Muggles will eat such wonderfully strange things. Would you like some Goldfish?"

Lovegood plucks a red box from the shelf and tears it open without pretense. Draco can only watch from somewhere outside himself, the experience even more surreal in it’s mundanity. It certainly did nothing to improve his opinion of muggles, faced with their casual disregard for small defenseless fish. Lovegood motions for Draco to hold out his hand, which he does as a mechanical response, and she pours several orange crackers into his open palm before taking some for herself.

Oh.

Draco’s not sure why he’s disappointed. He examines the small fish between his thumb and forefinger. Better to let Lovegood go first.

"I expect you need to swallow them whole if you want them to swim in your stomach," she muses, gazing towards the ceiling as she chews thoughtfully. "But they crunch so pleasantly, I haven't managed it yet."

Draco licks his lips.  "They taste a bit stale." 

They continue on, turning another corner, and Draco takes in what he can. The part of him that always seeks to hold an advantage is storing as much information as possible for future use. He supposes it’s not very different from the magically preserved pantries of the Manor: there’s baked breads and butchered meats, biscuits, wine, cheese - hey pass a tall display of various juices and Draco wants to stops and examine them, their contents like something out of a potions class.

Lovegood comes to a stop. "Here we are." Set between a corridor of identical glass doors, sits a handsome round table with five chair, porcelain dishes and gleaming cutlery.

One of the doors opens on the left. Cool air billows out across the floor as an elf hops down, a thick red scarf around his neck. He bows.

"Mr. Draco, Miss Luna." He rises, blinking his large brown eyes. "Karrey is to be taking your wands, please."

"Our wands?" Draco feels the colors drain from his face. He moves a hand to his pocket unconsciously. 

"It's standard procedure, Malfoy."

Potter appears from somewhere at the other end of the aisle. It's only years of failed attempts to bring him down a peg or two, that makes him woefully familiar with Potter's dumb cloak and keeps Draco from being startled. At least outwardly. His heart, on the other hand, has leapt into his throat and is doing somersaults.

Because, well, the Potter in front of him is... fit. Better than he'd been in school. Better than the last time he'd seen him, right after the mission when they'd hesitantly parted ways at the Ministry, Draco lingering at the end of the hall, too stupid to form the words with his mouth that he’d eventually forced himself to write down . Now, Potter's dark hair falls haphazardly over his forehead to cover his scar, searching Draco’s face with a vaguely impatient expression. . Draco clears his throat.

"No one informed me of that." If they had, Draco thinks resentfully, he probably wouldn't have come. He's only just gotten his wand back, a fact Potter is certainly well aware of. "Why wasn't it on the invitation?"

"Because it's temporary?" Potter makes a show of hands his wand off to the elf, who places it inside a small box, emitting a squeaky, "Thank you, Harry Potter". He turns back to Draco. "Don't you think you'd have heard if magical folk were handing over their wands and never getting them back?"

"Don't you know it's rude to answer a question with a question?" Draco snaps.

"You tell me, as you've just done it." Potter shoves by to greet Lovegood, leaving Draco to fume.

The house elf -- Corey? Cappy? -- holds out the box for a second time. "Please Mr.Draco, Karrey will be in trouble if he can not verify all wands are present."

Potter still has his back to him, prattling on about some nonsense like an utter ponce. As Draco can't hex the prat anyway, he pulls his wand from his robes and deposits it carefully into the box. He gives Karrey a hard look. "Should anything happen to my wand, I fully intend to find you. I will find you, and I will dress you." 

Karrey blinks, his eyes flat. He closes the box with a snap that almost takes Draco's fingers with it. "This way."

The three of them are led to the table and seated just as the remaining guests arrive: Terry Boot, who Draco remembers as being agreeable enough at school, and Romilda Vane, remembered almost exclusively for her obnoxious attempts to garner Potter's attentions.

Once they're all seated, Lovegood takes it upon herself to lead the conversation by stating the obvious. "Tonight’s supper is your first, isn’t it Draco? It’s funny that you and Harry would be tabled together, tonight of all nights."

"Hilarious," Draco mutters, and takes a sip from his water glass to have something to do with his hands.

"I was sort of hoping Ron would be here," Potter sighs more to himself than the table at large, "but I guess he's been put on another rotation."

Draco rolls his eyes at the comment, and almost misses the way Lovegood shakes her head. "Ron's your best friend, Harry. They can’t place you together all the time. The point is to get to know new people."

"Then they’re doing a shoddy job of it," Draco scoffs. He can't help himself, though admittedly he isn’t trying very hard. "Everyone present knows each other, Lovegood."

"We know of each other," Boot glances at Draco. "But it might help if we break the ice a little. Maybe a round of drinks?"

There's a loud crack and Karrey appears with a tray of drinks, taking the mention of ice-breaking quite literally: the glasses are brimming with crushed ice and a mixture of pineapple, ginger, and lime. He reaches for his glass as it’s placed in front of him, and noting everyone doing the same, he takes a sip. The tartness bursts on his tongue, sweet and refreshing.

"It's a shame these suppers are dry," Romilda pouts, swirling the ice in her glass. "Think how fun it would be if we could get a bit sloshed."

Potter wears an expression that clearly states he remembers his last experience with Romilda and her drinks. He feels something akin to satisfaction watching Potter lean away from her. "I think they’ve got it right.. Never know what someone might be up to."

"Too true," she say quickly, fluttering her lashes. Tossing her long, dark hair over her shoulder, Romilda's gaze drifts to Draco. "Speaking of which, how do, Malfoy? Harry’s being here isn’t much of a surprise but I can’t say the same for you." She pauses for effect. "I’d heard you were laying low for the time being."

"Laying low is a polite way to phrase wizarding pariah."

"Your words, not mine," she says with a small shrug. Tell us what’s brought you out of hiding."

"I wouldn’t want to bore you." Draco spies Potter watching him out of the corner of his eye, his shoulders tense. The sight of it is like a challenge to Draco, his own muscles growing tight as irritation lances down his spine. "This supper club came highly recommended. I suppose I’ve’ never been opposed to keeping good company."

"I’ll bet." Potter mutters under his breath.

"Have something you’d like to share with the table, Potter?" Draco raises his voice, challenging.

"Just curious about your definition of good company."

Draco lifts his chin, drawing a deep breath through his nostrils in an attempt to steady himself. He can feel everyone's eyes on him, anticipating what the ex-death eater will say. Maybe they expect him to leap across the table and wrap his hands around Potter’s throat. To throw a glass of wine in his face, screaming accusations about his father, still in Azkaban. They’re all thoughts he’s had before, and none of them have brought him the satisfaction he thought they would. Rising to the bait is one of many behaviors Draco's trying to curb. The real threat lies in knowing Potter wants to bait him and the desire to give into him. 

"I'd have to get to know someone before I could make that decision. Overcome differences. Work up to friendship." He pauses, meeting Harry’s gaze straight on. "That's why I'm here."

There's a strange intensity to Harry's eyes as he lifts his glass, studying Draco. "To overcoming differences."

Draco makes a concentrated effort to keep his gaze from straying to the other side of the table from that moment on. The main course arrives: something Karry calls, "Frozen Pizza," despite the fact that from what Draco can see, not a single ingredient adorning it looks to be at room temperature, let alone frozen. None of the others look to be familiar with it, save Potter, who looks rather bemused. Once everyone has been served, Draco lifts his fork and knife.

"Draco," Boot leans in, warm breath brushing the shell of Draco's ear. "You've to use your hands." He demonstrates exactly that, lifting the flatbread triangle to his mouth and taking a bite. Glancing around the table, Draco notes that Lovegood has removed all her toppings, choosing to roll the bread into a cylinder. Vane nibbles in a far more ladylike fashion, looking as if she doesn't enjoy what she’s being subjected to in the least. Potter has turned his slice around, consuming the broad end first in rather large bites.

Flatware back on the table, Draco lifts his slice and mimics the others, taking a bite of his own. He chews. It tastes... terrible. Not at all unlike how he imagines thick parchment would. It must show on his face; Boot laughs. It's pleasant -- the kind of dry laugh that reminds Draco of endless hours spent in the Slytherin Common Room.

Boot, who looks happy to avoiding drawing out a conversation with Romilda about her latest article in the Prophet, continues to converse with Draco instead. He seems to be making a name for himself as a portrait historian after having interviewed several of the Hogwarts portraits and a rather large handful of portraits belonging to old families of magical importance. Draco finds himself genuinely interested, especially upon the discovery that one of the portraits Boot’s been trying to track down happens to currently hang in the east wing of the Manor.

Yet, despite the distraction, Draco can’t help but overhear:

"You know," says Romilda, "I should’ve known you had a thing for Wizards when you failed to invite me to the Slug Club."

"That’s funny." Potter doesn't lower his voice, despite sounding annoyed. "Considering I didn’t know myself until a year ago."

"I practically threw myself at you," she continues. Draco reminds himself to nod to whatever Boot is currently saying. "The last I heard, you were gallivanting around the continent with that dashing Quidditch player. The pierced one."

"You can’t believe everything you read in the paper, Romilda."

Draco's stomach flutters uncomfortably. He looks down at his empty plate, Karrey should be coming to clear it away soon. The beater for the Wasps has pierced ears, but that hardly seems exciting.

"I didn’t say I’d read it." Romilda pouts. "I said I’d heard. What’s good journalism without sources?"

"Well," Potter says, tersely, "tell your sources that was just an assignment, and the assignment is over."

"What of the other thing ...?" Romilda trails off suggestively.

"You know as well I do. Biggsby’s always been eager to show it off."

When the plates have thankfully been cleared away, individual tubs of ice cream are wheeled out in a metal trolley. Ben and Jerry's comes in a remarkable assortment of flavors and Draco feels rather safe in his selection as he chooses it. Turns out muggle ice cream tastes the same as what he's used to, even if there is no fizzing or whizzing to go along with it.

The rest of the evening is relatively uneventful. When the last spoon vanishes and the table is clear, Karrey appears and they all rise to their feet. One by one he returns their wands, saving Draco for last, under the rightful assumption that the choice would leave him highly affronted. Draco thanks Lovegood for being gracious enough to eat his pizza, then snatches his wand back with a stamp of his foot that sends the house elf scurrying off.

"Auror training must keep you busy, Harry." This comes from Boot, finally pulling himself away from Draco's side to say goodbye to the rest of their companions. "Have you found another flat?"

Draco wants to know what’s happened to the first one.

"Not yet," says Potter, carefully. "I’m sure Ginny’s ready to kick me out on my arse, but Luna’s put her off it until convocation." He smiles fondly at Lovegood, who smiles back.

"I suppose you’ve sold the Black Home," says Draco's mouth, wholly and entirely without his permission.

Potter pauses, a crease between his brows. "Why would I? My godfather left it to me."

"And you're content to let it rot whilst you flit around the world." He doesn’t bother to mask it as a question.

"That's not—" Potter jerks his head, rubbing right where Draco knows his scar lies hidden beneath his fringe. "I don’t expect you to understand."

Draco draws a sharp breath just as Abernathy appears to collect him. The moment gone, Draco spins on his heel, heading in the other direction. His stomach swoops unpleasantly.

"It’s none of my business. Forget I asked."

 

+++++

 

"Romilda Vane is a belligerent cow." Pansy raises her arms over her head, an open copy of _The Quibbler_ in her outstretched hands. "She likes to show off, you know that."

Draco stops pulling books from his shelf long enough to fix Pansy with a dour look. "Do make yourself comfortable." The following Wednesday finds her strolling through his floo once again, accompanied by a sleeve of chocolate biscuits and a request to hear a full report of his weekend. Theo, unwilling to endure anything beyond the most basic notions of friendship (unless there was something in it for him), had hurriedly eaten his sweets and extracted himself, leaving Draco to bear the full brunt of Pansy’s questioning.

From the bed, she shoots him a rude gesture before motioning Draco to continue.

"Cow or not, you had lunch with her yesterday." He adds The Young Wizard’s Guide to Practical Potions to the growing stack of books at his feet. "And you didn’t even tell me until I brought her up." The next volume off the shelf is heavier, falling from his hands with a resounding thud.

"Well of course I did." Pansy turns another page of _The Quibbler_ with distaste. "She’s one of my dearest friends. Imagine how surprised I was when she mentioned you."

Draco casts her a sideways glance, entirely sure nothing good can come of her casual tone. "Did she? I’m sure it was a glowing review. Don’t leave out any of the interesting bits."

"Like your newfound love of pizza?" Pansy turns onto her side. "Or the fact that you’ve failed to mention the most interesting part of your night?"

"I told you about Boot," Draco says, evenly.

"Really, Draco!" Pansy shouts, tossing the Lovegoods’ livelihood over the side of the bed. "You’re making me work harder than someone I actually have a chance at shagging. Yet not one mention of our green-eyed, bed-headed savior?"

"He who does not comb?"

"The rumpled one."

Draco hitches his shoulder. "Was he there? I hardly noticed."

"But you did notice" Pansy pats the bed next to her until Draco abandons his research to join her. There’s a calculating gleam in her eyes. "I know you noticed."

"Pansy, he eats like a wandless person!" Draco shakes his head. "And he actually enjoys frozen pizza, which might be the foulest thing I have ever had the displeasure of putting into my mouth. Consider yourself fortunate you haven’t, it’s absolute dreck."

Pansy dismisses it with a wave, watching him closely. "Did you speak to him at all?"

Draco’s throat constricts, his voice tight. "Does it matter? Potter and I are barely acquaintances at this point. Thank Merlin the damn dinner guests rotate each time." He sighs. "I know Potter never wrote back because he doesn't want anything to do with me. And I refuse to embarrass myself again."

Pansy lifts a hand to rub his arm. Her sympathetic expression is almost comically insincere. They settle into a comfortable silence.

"How’s his arse?"

"Fantastic," Draco moans.

+++++

 

Abernathy escorts Draco into London the next Saturday. Squill & Spoon has chosen another muggle location to host their dinner, far more opulent than the last: a bank. Entering the building, a large chandelier gleams overhead and his dress shoes sink pleasantly into the plush red carpet. The familiarity of it all has a calming effect on Draco, until he’s led by Karrey the house elf to the place where the vaults are kept. There are no goblins, no carts. Just a large steel door with a circular latch that any idiot capable of a decent Alohomora! could unlock. It’s terribly disappointing, a fact he shares with Karrey as he opens the safe to reveal access to another room.

Amongst the gold bricks and stacks of funny green papers is a table made of glass. Three  of the five seats provided are occupied by Seamus Finnigan, Neville Longbottom, and to his relief, Millicent Bulstrode, who all express varying degrees of surprise at his entrance. The last unoccupied chair is to Draco's left. Its elegant place card remains blank, awaiting the magical signature of its occupant. 

Draco has just begun sharing his doubts about the cleanliness of muggle currency, when Karrey’s ears bat-like ears twitch. With a snap of his fingers, he vanishes.

Then he’s back.

"Sorry, sorry, I know I’m late." Potter climbs through the circular door of the vault, wearing that sheepish smile Draco hates the most. He hates it so much, it’s the first one his mind usually supplies him when he works himself in the middle of the night, careful to bite back his moans now that he can no longer cast silencing spells on his doors.

Potter sheds his coat and hands it off to Karrey with a grateful nod. He starts to remove his gloves, (GLOVES, Draco thinks, in a daze), but seems to thinks better of it, and keeps them on. "Neville, I didn’t know you’d--" Potter falters, surprise in his voice as well as his face glancing at Draco. "Er, training ran over."

"That’s alright, we’ve just ordered drinks," Longbottom laughs, beaming up at Potter. "Sit down, sit down."

Potter pulls out the chair next to Draco and drops into it without so much as a glance towards the place card. "We meet again."

The satisfaction Draco entertains, at the idea of watching Potter get booted from tonight’s proceedings on account of obviously being in the wrong location, is short-lived; Karrey arrives mere seconds later to collect Potter’s wand, all but confirming that yes, it is in fact Harry Potter's seat, and yes, thank you Mr. Draco,there is nothing wrong with Karrey’s eyesight, please sit down.

The whole experience is rather trying.

"It's nice to see you, too," Potter says dryly.

"I just thought I’d make sure." Draco sniffs, settling back in his chair. He smoothes a hand over the upholstery. "Wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea."

"Which is...?"

Draco allows himself a cursory sweep of Potter's robes, careful not to linger on anything... unnecessary. The fabric looks expensive: a deep jewel green, so dark they're almost black. Obviously bespoke. Perhaps Twilfits, or a designer from off the continent, leaping at the chance to dress the most famous wizard in Britain while charging him through the nose for it.

"That we coordinate our outfits." Draco indicates his own emerald dress robes, flecked with silver. "I knew you were obsessed with me, Potter, but if overcoming our differences requires a matching wardrobe, I'll pass. Solidarity only extends so far..."

"I knew you were upset about that!" Potter twists to face him, tamping down on a disbelieving laugh that almost sounds fond. He jostles  Draco's arm, lightly. "All I meant by that, was that I thought we’d reached some kind of understanding." His pitch shifts at the end so it sounds more like a question to Draco, than a statement. "I don’t think we’re enemies anymore, Malfoy. Haven't been for a while now." 

"Rather presumptuous of you, don’t you think? Not that I’m surprised." Draco says with no real bite. He’s actually rather stunned and needs a moment to process the information. Perhaps pinpoint the exact moment in Potter’s timeline where they’d gone from drawing their wands on each other to a friendly negotiation of terms. And how would these new terms affect his wanking privileges? "I suppose I’m not entirely opposed to it," Draco hedges after a moment’s deliberation, "Whatever not being enemies would make us."

"It’s definitely not friends," Potter warns.

"Definitely not," Draco agrees. "You’d be a fool to think so." 

Distilling their relationship down to something as simple as friendship, would never be the most viable option, but remained  far superior to the alternative. Somewhere along the way, wanting Harry Potter’s friendship had becoming wanting Harry Potter dead, to just wanting Harry Potter. It was only natural to run the full gambit of emotions as far as he was concerned. Certainly much more useful, Draco thinks, remembering the rush of resentment, of betrayal, at the idea of being dismissed by Potter once again. 

Any trepidation he felt now over crossing lines would be much easier to ignore if the line remained vague.

He angles himself towards Potter and their knees brush under the table. They both jump and Draco’s ears grow hot. "As this is our first meals as not enemies," he blurts out, "I'll ask that you not to do anything crass. Like molesting me under the table. Or folding your food in order to eat when there's perfectly good silverware."

"That's how you eat pizza, Malfoy!"

"So you’ve said... Remember, we're not enemies anymore. I expect you noble types to be truthful."

Potter runs a hand through his messy curls and grins. "You too. Do you plan to actually eat something this time?"

"It’s not my fault the offerings were so poor. Standards must be lower than I thought if that was what passes for gourmet."

"I think it’s more about the experience."

"Mmm, yes. Adequate company, substandard food, harassed by house elves. Karrey has it out for me, I'm sure of it."

Potter raises an eyebrow. "You've no proof of that."

"Neither do you. Does he, Longbottom?"

From the end the table, seated between Millicent and Finnigan, Longbottom looks up. "Alright, Harry?"

"Don't mind him Neville, Malfoy's just taking the piss."

Draco nods. "Yes, you see, Harry doesn't mind if the house elves are out to poison anyone, so long as it's not him."

Potter stares, apparently at a loss for words. "I do mind," he says after a moment. "I just think they made an honest mistake, that's all."

"What's this then?" Millicent, leans forward, tucking a stray curl behind her ear from where it's escaped her bun. "Did something happen before? Are they targeting us?"

"Are you asking me if the house elves are targeting former Slytherins by poisoning their food?" Potter's eyes narrow, and Draco has a fleeting thought of Dobby. Of course the thought would make him angry if he thought it were a serious one.

"I'm asking Draco, but you're welcome to answer if you think you've got one." Millicent doesn't so much as blink under Potter's cold gaze. "I'm sure you wouldn't let something like that happen on your watch but the information's still valuable."

"I just assumed it was up to me to pick up the slack."

Karrey brings their menus, and there's a lull in conversation as everyone deliberates. When the entrees are presented, much faster this time than at the market place, their plates are laden with all form of decadence - no galleon has been spared. Potter however, frowns.

"Is that all you're going to have?" he asks Finnigan, his brows knit as he leans forward.

"I'm in recovery mode. Soft food, soft voices." Finnigan grins, although the gesture seems to cost him. He immediately cringes. "Took Dean out to The Veela's Touch until the wee hours, with the intention to sleep the rest of the day away. This is technically breakfast."

Potter's laugh surrounds Draco. It's a deep warm timber that travels down his back like a shiver. In comparison, Boot's laugh doesn't even register.  Draco seizes his glass and brings it to his lips, frowning as the bubbles snap and fizz over his tongue, his insides squirming. 

"Have you been, Milli?" Finnigan continues, turning towards her so there's mistake who he's addressing. "It's brilliant, though a bit rowdy after hours. I think you'd like it."

Draco lifts a brow. If Millicent's surprised to be addressed so casually by a Gryffindor he's fairly certain she's never exchanged more than a sneer from across the great hall with, it doesn't show. Perhaps, Draco considers, true reticence shines brightest in the company of the socially reckless.

"Mmm." Millicent sips her own champagne. "Veela's Touch and I go way back. Ask Draco." Over the top of her glass she catches his eye and winks. He snorts into his glass.

"You'll have to forgive Bulstrode," he says, setting the champagne back down and pushing it away with distaste. He's not a fan of fizzy drinks. "Barely out of school and the details of her love life are already too sordid to repeat in polite company."

"Really?" Finnigan's face is a mixture of disturbed and surprised. Draco considers whether he ought to feel insulted on behalf of his friend. While not beautiful in a conventional sense, Millicent exudes a confidence that makes her far more attractive than many of the girls Draco's ever known, romantically or otherwise. He'd once been tempted to express this idea to Pansy, but rightly judged that she'd take it as a personal slight. Blaise had unknowingly been the one to fall upon that particular sword and Pansy had returned to them two weeks later, not with a renewed sense of assurance, but a newfound appreciation of muggle rhinoplasty.

Draco decides to order the most visually pleasing meal on the menu: a plate of artfully arranged chicken wings, dipped in a marinade of liquid gold and dusted with gold flakes.

Finnigan lets out a low whistle, his eyes wide. "They're really going all out, aren't they?"

"Who?" Draco wrinkles his nose, reaching for the linen napkin in front of him and draping it across his lap.

"The lads at the Ministry who cooked up this whole supper business." The steak Karrey places in front of Finnigan sizzles enticingly. "Suppose to be a secret innit? Anonymous donor. There's all sorts of speculation as to who."

"And the DMLE doesn't care enough to investigate?" asks Millicent. Draco cranes his neck for a better look. Beef Wellington, a safe choice, if a little predictable. "Sounds like they aren't pulling their weight."

"They're doing just fine if you ask me." Potter makes no effort to hide the bite in his voice. Another predictable choice, Draco thinks, but one that has much more potential to be entertaining.

"No one did, but that's never stopped you."

"He's exaggerating. As usual." Draco rolls his eyes. "Pansy says she saw you having lunch with some mystery man just this week."

Draco bites his cheek. Trust Pansy to withhold that pertinent piece of information from no one but him. Draco had indeed had lunch with in the Ministry Atrium with Terry Boot after he'd cornered Draco coming out of his Mind Healer's office. Boot had even talked his Auror detail into sitting at another table where they'd be well within his eye line. When Draco had risen to leave, Boot pulled him into an alcove and kissed him, a tepid experience that left Draco feeling as if he'd dragged slimy murtlap tentacles across his mouth.

"You ought to come out with us sometime, then. Bring Blaise and Pansy, we'll make a night of it. You too Harry, now that you've rid yourself of that last bloke. What a knob he was. No offense," Finnigan adds quickly, looking sheepish.

"Er, I’ll think about it.."

Entrees done, Draco's plate promptly vanishes, the tablecloth as immaculate as when he'd first sat down. Wiping his fingers on the heated towel Karrey offers him, Draco selects a slice of cake for afters. Harry declines, seemingly content to nurse his cup of tea-- a decision Draco both tries, and fails, to reconcile with after years spent observing Potter's developing treacle habit. That is, until the cake arrives. It's chocolate: moist and decadent, creamy mousse sandwiched between two layers, topped with a chocolate ganache. Exactly the kind Draco would consume without a second thought.

He pushes it towards Potter.

The skeptical look he receives is not completely unwarranted. "This is starting to become a habit with you."

"It's a friendly gesture. Don't tell me chocolate suddenly poses a moral dilemma for you. I may develop a complex."

Potter snorts. "Can't have that, can we?"

"I'm a very giving person, Harry. You'd know that if you took the time. Those Potter Stinks badges weren't cheap."

"I'll bet. And now you've given me your cake."

"Well, not all of it."

Potter rolls his eyes, but carves a small piece all the same and brings it to his mouth. The fork slides between his lips and his head tips back, eyes fluttering as they slide closed.

"Good?" asks Draco, focusing on the way Potter's adam's apple bobs when he swallows, faintly aware he's supposed to be checking for signs of sleeping draught.

"Mmm," Potter hums happily, and the theory quickly dismisses itself by virtue of his not being face down on the table. Relief settles in Draco's stomach, followed by a rush of warmth. Potter’s pleased moans are a thing of beauty, positively indecent. He’s tempted to let him keep going, but Potter isn’t the only one with a sweet tooth.

Draco purses his lips and reaches for his plate. "Shall I summon Karrey for another piece?"

+++++

Theo is back at the manor a few days after visiting his father to check on his horse. Draco invites him to stay for lunch, and once they’re done, realizes he has to keep his mandatory appointment at the Ministry with his Mind Healer to discuss his thoughts. His very hostile and unsatisfied thoughts. He’s quite eager to share – something Pansy, Theo, his mother, and even Theo’s horse can all attest to.

He floos to London, then makes his way into the Ministry, exiting the grate and crossing the foyer. Ministry appointed visits were the only trips Draco was allowed to make by himself, for obvious reasons. Mind healers were on level three, a dimly lit stretch of offices far more intimidating than their intended purposes would suggest.

The blue-haired reception-witch doesn’t look up when Draco reaches her desk. He clears his throat. He watches her shuffle through some papers and sharpen a quill. When she continues to ignore him, he casually tips the inkwell sitting precariously on the edge of her desk, spilling its contents across the official-looking document she’s currently reading. Her head snaps up.

"Mr. Malfoy," she seethes through clenched teeth. "I don’t believe you have an appointment now."

"I’m early. Be a dear, Opal, and see if Headland can be accommodating?"

Opal rolls her eyes but does as he asks, making a show of rising from her chair on tremulous knees. She slowly shuffles towards the mind healer’s office, disappearing through the oak doors. Hardly more than a couple seconds pass before she returns with much more spring in her step than when she’d left. Draco levels her with a dry look. "Really?"

"He says he doesn't want to see you." Opal was never one to mince words. "But. If you were to return in, let’s say, twenty minutes time, with a pumpkin pasty from that place in Diagon Alley, you may find me away from my desk. Just around the time Headland takes his midday nap."

The problem with Slytherins, Draco muses as he queues inside Sugarplum’s Sweets a few minutes later, is that they’re too adept at reading other people—particularly other Slytherins. Not a flaw in itself, but it’s terribly hard to resist pressing an advantage once it’s been spotted. It’s also hard not to take the bait when the payoff is something as arbitrary as baked goods. Feisty old Opal’s adherence to house customs is adorably archaic. He probably would have brought her sweets anyway, if he could move freely, just for the amusement of rousing her suspicions. The real inconvenience of the exchange was having to stand in line.

Frowning at the pies and cakes on display, the reflection of someone tall standing directly behind Draco catches his eye. He turns.

"Malfoy." Ron Weasley scrunches his long nose as if something foul wafts beneath it. Draco mirrors his posture, squaring his shoulders. "Weasley."

A thick silence descends. He feels he ought to say something to fill it. On the other hand, why make the effort of polite conversation when they both knew there was nothing to say? He’s sure Weasley would appreciate the honesty and lack of pretense. Draco turns back around to the display.

"So I suppose they've let you out?"

Merlin’s pendulous ballsack. Sighing heavily Draco spins, yet again. "In a manner of speaking. I suppose you all had a good laugh about it down on level two."

Weasley’s still frowning. "Harry may have mentioned it in passing."

"Potter?" Draco blurts gracelessly. He could kick himself. Instead he crosses his arms tightly, willing himself not to fidget. He shrugs nonchalantly in the face of Weasley’s knit eyebrows. "He always did like keeping track of my whereabouts."

"And I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?"

Draco sniffs. "Far be it from me to explain the inner workings of Potter’s mind." The line inches forward. Draco swears he feels himself age. "If the best gossip to cross your desk is that I’m finally able to leave my home under the watchful eyes of DMLE escorts, you’re not getting enough work done."

"Ministry escorts? You mean an Auror detail?" Weasley glances around the bakery, obviously hoping to catch sight of another prat in red robes. Like they’re impossible to spot. He turns back to Draco with suspicion. "I don’t see anyone here, Malfoy."

"Don’t you?" he asks, pointedly.

They were finally at the counter. Weasley leans past his shoulder to get a closer look at the items in the display, practically drooling onto Draco's pristine robes in the process. Draco bristles, stepping aside and leaving room for Weasley in the line. "Would you like to go first? You're practically foaming at the mouth."

"Skipped breakfast this morning. Hermione's been on a health kick. It's organic this, all-natural  that. Harry and I have been practically fasting ourselves until we can sneak a decent pastry." 

"Hmm." There were quite a few delicious looking chocolate eclairs with his name on them. He buys them, along with Opal’s Pumpkin Pasty, and a few apple tarts for Theo as a last minute impulse. He does not think about Potter’s circumstances or the fact that there are no treacle tarts in the display case. "I guess this is where we make our pleasant goodbye."

"Get out of here Malfoy." Ron shakes his heads. "Next time I promise to ignore you and we'll call it a day."

"Gladly."

Draco exits the bakery and crosses the street, walking briskly back towards the Ministry. He tries to stop himself from thinking about the exchange that just took place. Why was Potter talking about him? How did his name come up and what else might he have said? It was enough to drive Draco mad if he allowed himself think on it too long. Potter was an Auror — of course news of his release would have crossed his desk. But did Potter know the terms of his sentence? The idea of it sent a hot flush of embarrassment up Draco's neck.

With Headland’s reception-witch taken care of, it doesn’t take long for Draco to get and out of his Mind Healer’s office. He keeps his responses vague, unwilling to give Headland any ammunition in terms of his thoughts on Potter. They finish earlier than expected, and with time to spare before he’s due back, Draco detours to the Atrium to visit the tea cart for a drink.

Only once he’s there, he realizes he’s left his visitor’s badge on Opal’s desk. It’s a failed attempt to purchase his much needed cup of earl gray. The witch at the cart refuses to sell him anything without clearance.

Thoroughly irritated, Draco endures the whispers and pointed glares of the elevator for a second time, and descends back to the third level. He’s just reached the corridor leading to Headland’s office when he nearly collides into Potter coming out.

"Draco!" Potter steps back, his face rapidly turning pink.

"Really honing those Auror skills, aren’t you Potter," Draco says breathlessly, the smile fading from his face when Potter tenses. "What are you--" Draco looks around, then back to Potter. "What are you doing here?"

"Sorry, I really can’t talk now," Potter’s eyes dart wildly as he backs away. "Official... Auror stuff! Maybe later?" His walk becoming a sprint as soon as he reaches the end of the hall.

Draco leaves without his tea.

+++++

 

An owl prods its sharp little talons against the glass outside Draco's window on the Friday before his next dinner. It was unusual, as most of the owls sent to the manor followed the procedure of dropping their items to the front door where a house elf would receive them properly. The fact that the owl came personally to Draco meant that it was under special instruction and was quite secretive.

Draco turns towards Theo who was sprawled across his bed, furiously scratching at a bit of parchment. "Are you expecting an owl from anyone?"

"No," he answers without looking up. There’s ink on his fingers and dotting his cheek, a left over childhood habit of gnawing on his quills.

Draco opens the latch and the small brown owl flew in, landing on his bureau and holds its leg out expectantly. Draco takes the small roll and unfurls it, his eyes moving rapidly across the page.

"What is it?" Theo asks with a note of concern, sitting up on the bed.

"The directions for the next dinner party. Tomorrow evening. I'm to wear a riding cloak."

"Well that's alright, isn't it?" Theo looks a bit envious at the mention of riding. He'd been to check on Persephone twice already that day. "You suppose you'll be dining on horseback?"

"I wouldn't put it past the muggles in charge of this disaster," Draco grimaces. "But I don't think so. Perhaps it'll be cool outdoors?"

"Draco." Theo's voice takes on a serious tone that makes Draco go still. He looks up and Theo watches his face. "I know you've been enjoying yourself at these suppers, despite your protests. Don't forget yourself entirely."

"What do you mean..." asks Draco.

"Potter has shown up twice now. It could be a coincidence, but given your history, and who both of you are, you'd have to be naive to think so. I’ve been looking into who's behind this Supper Club, and have also asked a few people help me dig further. So just," Theo makes a face of utter disgust, "be careful."

+++++

 

The first week of July brings with it the third gathering of Squill & Spoon. Draco apparates into the middle of a clearing-- the grass is high and springy, coming up to his knees. The evening air smells fresh and the sun is on the horizon, painting the sky a brilliant orange. A sense of calm suddenly comes over Draco, despite the isolation of the current location, and he closes his eyes, feeling the sun on his face. The arrival of another person is brought on by a shift in the air. His eyes track across the expanse, looking for the source, spotting Blaise Zabini heading on a rather direct course across the grass his way.

"Well now I know I haven't been sent on some kind of goose chase." Blaise offers a tight smile before he looks at their surroundings with interest. "If you'd told me back at Hogwarts you and I would be spending our Saturday night standing in the middle of a field digging brambles out of trousers, I'd have thought it would  least have heavily involved copious amounts of wine." 

"Not quite." Draco produces a handsome flask from inside his blazer pocket and flexes his wrist. The contents inside don’t make a single sound, filled to the brim as it is.

"Gin?"

He shakes his head. "Distilled bezoar."

"Christ. Has Theo been experimenting again?"

"Only when I ask him to."

"I'll bet. Anything else I should know about? I'd have gone through the usual channels if I thought these dinners were more than a simple how-do."

"The odds aren't so bad. I've survived two so far."

"And your medal will be sent via owl post. Though I suppose it says something if you've managed to escape being poisoned... so far."

"You don't seem surprised to see me here."

"Timely observation will save you from delayed revelations."

"Meaning?"

"Your probation is almost over and these suppers are being presented as neutral ground. If I were expected to re-enter wizarding society and ferret my way into everyone's good graces, it would a good place to start."

"You've given this some thought."

"I'm a strategist, Draco. You're too intelligent not to know that much. And you're too intelligent to take these suppers at face value."

"You've been talking to Theo," Draco says, watching Blaise's face for confirmation.

"I've been talking to quite a lot of people. Theo, sure. Ran into Finnigan at the bar and he had some pleasant words to say about you, not that he remembers much about the night. My connections in Headland's office Geminio'd some files that made for a very interesting nighttime read."

"You've read my file?!"

"Draco, where would you ever get that idea, you must have misheard me. You should get rest at night, you're very tired. Or perhaps a hobby? Something to help ease the tension and stress"

"I'll give you a hobby in a minute," Draco grits out.

In the distance, a horse neighs. A carriage, drawn by two regal looking horses, glides towards them. There's no driver, but when the horses reach them, it stops and waits.

The door of the open top carriage swings open.

"After you," Blaise says politely.

Soon the clearing transforms into a tree-lined path. The sun continues to slip behind the horizon and Draco can't help feeling nostalgic – the surroundings remind him a bit of Wiltshire and the Manor, before when the Dark Lord had been nothing more than a whisper of a name. The path at the end opens up to a giant glass Conservatory, complete with a large circular drive and huge fountain sitting in the middle. There are flower bushes and topiaries, giant hedges and gorgeous fruit trees everywhere Draco looks. It's beautiful.

Blaise hops out of the carriage, eyes wide. "Well, well. This is quite a sight."

"The almost sounds like a compliment, Zabini. Don't tell me you're going soft."

"I'm just stating a fact," he smiles. "Look there, I think I see someone."

He's pointing towards the fountain, where a small set of tall circular tables have been set up. The house elves present are serving finger foods from small trays held above their heads, despite Granger's protest. Next to her stands–

"You're drooling." Blaise looks delightfully amused.

"I'm an enormous fan of fresh herbs."

"Mmhmm."

"Hullo, Blaise. Draco." Cho Chang is wearing a red summer dress, her dark hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. It's simple, but elegant. He supposes she looks beautiful if you like that sort of thing. Draco scowls as his eyes dart once more to the fountain.

"Draco?"

"Chang. Yes, Hello."

Blaise doesn't bother to hide his amusement this time. "We've already moved past the introductions and onto the small talk, my friend. Help yourself to a drink?" The side of his mouth lifts. "You look quite thirsty."

"I'll wait until we're seated, thanks."

"Nonsense." Blaise lifts a hand. "Potter!"

Harry looks up from his conversation with Hermione, his eyes startled as they move Blaise to Draco.

"Stop hogging Granger's attention and come join us. And bring a seltzer for Draco won't you?"

Draco feels his face heat as Harry turns back to the table to speak to the elf. Then he and Hermione are crossing the courtyard.

"Here." Harry hands him a glass of something cool and slushy that looks like a sunset. A thin plastic tube is set inside, curling and bending in several loops, almost as tall as the glass itself. Harry lifts his own almost identical drink to his mouth, hollows his cheeks and sucks.

"Don't like it? I know you don't like carbonated drinks."

"No, I–" Draco clears his throat. "I just– what is this?" He gestures to the loopy plastic thing.

"The straw?" Harry looks down at it. "I don't know what to say, it's a crazy straw. You drink through it." He sucks again to prove his point.

"A crazy straw," Draco repeats skeptically. "This is a muggle thing, isn't it."

"Been keeping busy, Potter?" Blaise cuts in, his posture straight as a line and the smile on his face perfectly charming. "Auror training and all that?"

"Oh, of course he's been busy. He's flitting all about the ministry these days."

Harry cocks his head at Draco, a crease between his brows. "Well that is where the training facility is, so I would be there."

"Is that so? I mean, when I ran into you the other day, you were coming down the corridor on level three. And what’s up there? I mean, I know the Mind Healers and such, but why would you be there?"

Harry's mouth is a thin line. "Cho works there."

"In Headland's office? Chang, I haven't seen you. Are you interning under someone new?" Draco turns back to Harry feigning perfect innocence. "It would have to be a great coincidence that you happened to be coming out of the mind healer I'm currently seeing, wouldn't it?"

Blaise shakes his head. "This is reminding me of sixth year all over again."

"Granger, you must tell me how things have been going at the DMLE!" Chang says loudly, nudging her way into the circle.

"If you're referring to Harry's hunch about Malfoy’s behaviour being correct," Granger continues without missing a beat, "I'm likely to agree with you. Because I'd hate to think you've forgotten the five years prior that Malfoy spent making Harry's life miserable."

Draco feels his face burn. He wouldn't say miserable, thank you so. That's a bit much even from Granger.

Blaise smiles. "If we're honest, I've forgotten what I ate for breakfast last Tuesday. I could hardly be bothered to keep track of Draco's every move at Hogwarts. That requires true dedication and I'm too selfish for that."

Granger lips are a firm press. "There's something you have in common," she says coldly.

"Hermione." Harry catches Granger's eyes and they exchange looks. He shakes his head at her.

"Harry's always had stubborn focus," Chang says, in a winning attempt to keep the cheer in her voice from sounding too forced. "I think it's a bit of a seeker trait. Makes sense that he has a thing for them."

"Indeed." Blaise smiles into his glass.

Draco scowls. Cho and Weasley were both back to back. Wood and Diggory weren't a thing until after Hogwarts, although looking back the hints were definitely there. It makes sense. Maybe it explains why Draco's been so stubborn too. He's still fixated on Harry even now. Neither of them are seekers anymore.

Granger is quick to come to Harry's defense. "Harry's obvious when he likes someone, but that isn't his fault. He's just more expressive than most."

"I'd like to speak for myself, if I may." Harry says roughly, the drink in his hand heavy with condensation. "And I don't think it's really anyone's business since I'm not seeing anyone right now. Can we stop talking about my love life now? Please?"

"Yes, someone please talk about anything, there’s bound to be much more interesting topics of conversation than whether Potter will have to spend one night without a warm body in his bed." Draco sniffs, doing his best to look bored as he gives the crazy straw a try. It takes a bit of effort and he has to inhale for much longer than seems convenient before the drink makes its way to his mouth and down his throat. It's nice. Very citrusy.

Draco decides it's time he take a walk around the gardens, maybe give himself a little space away from the group to focus on his thoughts. He heads towards bank of hedges and rose bushes, examining the blooms as he slowly makes his way along the grounds. His mother would love it here. The beds aren't as artfully arranged as what they've worked on at the manor, but he can still see that a lot of care has gone into the grounds. There's several species of trees and magical insects that he has yet to see anywhere near the manor, and he wonders if it's possible that the yellow rot that Longbottom has successfully helped him conquer has anything to do with the variation of creatures.

Potter speaks suddenly from behind Draco. He hadn't even noticed his approach. "I didn't know you liked flowers."

"I think everyone likes flowers, Harry. Caring for them isn’t exactly rocket science is it?"

"No, I just don't see you as the type to work outdoors. Get your hands dirty."

"I've had a lot of practice."

Harry’s tactful enough not to comment, but Draco doesn’t like the idea of that particular idea being what leaves Harry lost in thought. Twisting his hands, Draco lets out a long sigh. "When we got back from that mission, my Father had already been taken to Azkaban. Mother and I began serving our house arrest."

Draco concentrates on the setting sun on his face, the zip of the insects flying by. "I couldn’t stand being in that house. I suppose that was the point. Anyone would go nutty being cooped up for too long, but at that time.." he trails off, swallowing hard. "I spent all my time outside. Sunrise to sunset, even sleeping in the garden when I could get away with it. My mother has a thing for flowers. She began planting them as a way to pass the time. I started as a way to keep her company, but I started to enjoy it. We started planting topiaries. Herbs. Trees." He snorts, wistfully. "By the time we were done, we had an entire orchard."

Harry looks confused. "But your sentence was only one year. I remember from the trial. How could you grow all those things?"

"Pureblood homes are always built on land rich in magical attributes," He tries not to take Harry’s confused expression as a personal offense. "There’s enough nutrients in the grounds of Malfoy Manor to replicate the Forbidden Forest if we wanted." Draco shakes his head. "As it were, we’ve been selling what we grow as a way to recoup some of our losses."

Harry comes to a stop and Draco stops besides him. Stars are already winking into existence, faint in the orange-blue haze as the sun disappears beyond the horizon. Harry laughs.

"What is it?"

"Who would have thought Draco Malfoy would have a green thumb?"

Draco smirks. "It was certainly a shock to Longbottom to find we have something in common, I assure you."

They walk through the gardens in silence, coming to a small cropping of shrieking irises. They're still young, just buds. Their horns have yet to open, so the sound emanating from them is more of a hum.

"Don't you think it's a bit perverse?"

Draco chokes on his spit. "E-excuse me?"

"We're in a garden, with bees. And we're eating little finger sandwiches full of honey which are basically their life blood."

"We've been doing much worse as wizards. We cut the tentacles off of murtlaps and then turn around and feed it to them when we need a bit of good luck."

"Hmm." Harry nods, giving it some thought. He still has bandages on his fingers but they look a lot better today. There are less now and the skin where the ones that have been removed are gone, looks smooth and new, if a little shiny.

"You hands look better than last time."

Harry looks down as if he's not sure what Draco is talking about. "Ah. Yeah. I've been working on a lot of things lately, its a bit of a handful. And Henry's been no help."

"Henry?"

"A friend who's been staying at mine for a few weeks. Ginny finally managed to kicked me out, so I'm back at Grimmauld Place but that house is too large for one person. Figured I could use the company."

"That makes sense." And it does. It's one of the reasons Draco encouraged Theo to come stay with him once their fathers were sentenced, despite knowing Auror Abernathy would be another one of the conditions. Loneliness is a great motivator.

Karrey appears to lead them into the conservatory and seat them at a long table. Everyone is on the same side, like a wedding party or the head table at Hogwarts, but somehow Potter's place seating is has been placed next to his once again. Karrey stares up at Draco with wide unblinking eyes as he takes his wand. He continues to stare for so long that Draco finds himself looking around to make sure he's not imagining things. Did someone cast a freezing charm?

Potter softly clears his throat, "Karrey, could you bring us something to drink, please? Draco likes apples. Perhaps you can make something?"

Karrey finally blinks.  "Yes, Karrey knows all about Mr. Draco. He will make something extra special."  He vanishes. 

Draco's hand wanders on it's own accord to his chest where he can feel the bezoar flask under his robes. 

Karrey returns with two glasses, already sweaty with condensation. They both have identical looking drinks and no straws this time. The elf looks at them both as if trying to remember something. Then deliberately places one glass in front of Potter and the other in front of Draco, blinking rapidly. "Karrey hopes you will enjoy."

Draco waits until he's moved down the table to wipe his forehead. "Remember what I said, Potter? About the House elves watching me?"

To his credit, Potter doesn’t immediately look at Draco like he’s barmy, but with the interest of someone expecting a punchline. "Watching you," he repeats playfully.

"I know what you’re thinking."

"No, you don’t."

"But I’ve suspected for a while now and have only just confirmed it. Karrey, in particular, but the others too— no, don’t look!" Draco snatches Potter’s chin. The rasp of stubble lingers on his fingers when he releases it. Potter hasn't shaved today. "Are you mad? You can’t let on that you know! Then they’ll know that I know."

"Malfoy, you’re not making any sense."

"It doesn’t have to make sense. Nothing involving you ever does." Draco throws him a haughty look. "That’s how I know that I’m right."

"How can you be sure? You just said they were stalking you, not me."

"Three weeks of randomly assigned dinners, yet we always end up at the same table. I wrote to the Ministry after the second time because I thought there had to be some kind of mistake."

"Huh. You really know how to make a guy feel welcome."

"Please. You’d have done the same if you’d thought of it fast enough."

Potter snorts, amused. "You’ve got me there."

"And yet, here we are." Draco uncrosses his arm and sits up, so that he can level Potter with a serious look. He allows for a dramatic pause. Potter’s eyes are terribly green. "Do you have something to do with this? Are you keeping an eye on me too?"

"Right now?" Potter asks incredulously.

"Now. The last dinner. Sixth year," he adds with emphasis. "It wouldn’t surprise me if it’s a habit you can’t seem to break."

"Are all Slytherins this suspicious?"

"Are all Gryffindors so quick to stereotype?" Draco makes a nasty face. "The whole purpose of Squill & Spoon is so that we move past our assumptions of one another. But I know how you work, Potter. It’s just like you to make me your little pet case and assign house elves and who knows who else to keep an eye on me."

"You think so highly of yourself." Potter’s eyes have narrowed now, his breath coming quick as he glares at Draco. "Do you honestly think I have nothing better to do than watch your every move? That you just garner so much attention, no one can help but focus on you whenever you’re in the room?"

Draco can feel his heart hammering in his chest, but he doesn’t dare cower under Potter’s intensity. Instead, he matches it with his own, leaning in just as close to lower his voice to a hiss. "Yes, that’s exactly what I think. Because you know me too."

"I may have spent one year following you around Hogwarts, but that doesn’t discredit the fact that you spent five of them following me."

Draco shakes his head. "So I’m another of your sycophants, am I? Lord Potter, reigning over Wizarding Britain like the King of everything while us peasants fall to our knees and lick your boots."

"I never made you feel like a peasant, Draco." The use of his name leaves Draco momentarily stunned, his mouth moving stupidly, gaping, as he tries to find words to brandish against the assault.

"I’ve never made you feel like anything other than what you already felt about yourself." Potter draws back with a sigh and Draco immediately feels the distance between them, the loss of body heat and warmth. Potter sounds sad. "We spent six years projecting onto each other and didn’t even know it." 

Draco blinks down at his knees. He wants to go back to the fun playful way they’d spoken to each other before. It was just a few minutes ago and now it feels like hours. Days. Would every conversation they tried to have eventually spiral into something like this? Good intentions dissipating like smoke and revealing a chasm too daunting to build a bridge across?

"I’m sorry." Potter directs the words to his plate, but there’s something determined in the set of his shoulders that betrays him. The confidence to be wrong and admit it without any superfluous details. It was what made Potter the man that everyone thought he was, even if he didn’t live up to it all the time. It was a heavy crown to bear. No one could live up to it all the time. "I didn’t mean to generalize. I’m working on it."

Because his first instinct is to be cutting, Draco says nothing at all. Nods.

The next dish arrives and it’s a succulent white fish topped with a white wine reduction and fresh greens on the side. The fish is perfectly cooked, flaky and moist when he pares it with his fork. It’s even better when he tastes it, melting like butter on his tongue.

"This is amazing," Potter moans next to him. "I’ve never had anything like this."

Draco squeezes a bit of lemon juice onto his greens. "I have to admit I wasn’t expecting it to be quite this good."

"You lowered your expectations, eh?"

"They never served fish at Hogwarts. The elves are branching out."

"I think Hermione has been talking to them again. Something about making the menu more diverse."

"Mmm," Draco murmurs noncommittally. Personally he feels there’s nothing wrong with maintaining some traditions; the post-war climate seemed to breed a new brand of overcompensation. Traditions could be good as long as they weren’t hurting anyone. "I’m not used to being around you like this." He extends the admission like an olive branch. "You know. Nice."

"That was nice?" Potter laughs in disbelief.

"Oh, piss off."

The rest of the evening goes relatively well. Blaise's mouth goes a mile a minute, somehow carrying conversations with Potter, Granger and Chang individually. At one point he and Potter burst into laughter, standing close as Draco watches their mouths move. He tells himself he's happy to see it, but the relief he feels when they separate and Potter's eyes meet his, is a lot more apparent.

Once again, two Granian-drawn carriages arrive to take them back.  They swoop and circle through the air, wheels creaking with the impact as they hit the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco sees Blaise dart a glance at him. 

"As the delicate type,  I must insist you ladies accompany me back, and I won't hear a word about it." Blaise hooks himself onto Chang's elbow with a cheeky grin, crooking his free arm for Granger to take hold. "Those two have been waiting all evening to rough me up, and I fear they'll overpower me." 

"Doubtful," Draco nods towards Harry.  "If you've no wand for him to expelliarmus, I doubt there's any appeal." 

"And you'd know what appeals to Potter, would you?"  Blaise opens the door and Chang climbs in. 

"It's his signature move, not exactly a secret," Granger tosses over her shoulder. "Harry, don't forget about next Sunday. We're meeting at seven and you'll need to have it all sorted by then."

"Will do," Harry waves them off, then turns to Draco. "Shall we?" He indicates the empty carriage.

Draco climbs in first, his blood thundering when Harry seats himself beside Draco instead of across, bumping his knee. "I like to see where I'm going," Harry explains. Draco nods, wondering why he would volunteer such innocuous information. "How observant of you."

"I observe a lot of things," Harry looks up, chewing his lip thoughtfully. The stars are out, bordered by a canopy of trees. "For instance," he says, "do you realize this is our third(fourth?) dinner date? It's like we're going steady and we haven't even kissed."

Draco feels himself blush. He scowls. "Everyone doesn't move as fast as you do, Potter."

"Some people don't move at all. Are all purebloods such moralists?"

"I thought you said you were observant," Draco says. He's certainly observant. Potter's moved closer. They're touching from hip to knee. "We're the ambitious ones, remember? I'm the kind to do whatever I have to to get what I want... if I want it bad enough." 

"I know." Harry eyes are bright in the darkness, lids half-mast. "I know exactly what you're like."

Draco launches himself at Harry before he can think better of it, pressing his mouth to his with a ferocity that feels urgent, wild. It feels crazy when Harry doesn't rebuff him, dizzying when he returns Draco's kiss with an intensity that matches his own. Harry's arms come up to wrap around him, his hands everywhere, setting Draco alight, sensation shooting like sparks, electric wherever he touches.  In the darkness, Draco rises onto his knees and brackets the outside of Harry's thighs, sliding his tongue along Harry's, sliding his hand to grasp the hair at the nape of his neck. 

Then the carriage jolts and Draco pulls off roughly, panting. Harry's stares up at him, his chest heaving, his face flushed. His lips are so full, they look bruised and Draco wants to bite down on the pout of his lower lip, feel the flesh of it between his teeth. Dimly Draco registers that he's hard, that the night air feels cool against the back of his neck. The horses have slowed. Draco dismounts from Harry's lap and flees for the safety of the seat opposite.

Harry runs a over his face. Sighs. "You didn't have to do that."

Spine straight, chin raised,  Draco's laugh sounds brittle to his own ears.  "I don't need you to tell me that, Potter. I just wanted to prove a point." Over Harry's shoulder he can see the others, finishing their goodbyes before disappearing into the night. Off to the side, another auror stands waiting for him, red robes mottled in the moonlight. "And now that I have, it's no use getting hung up on me." 

Draco leaps from the carriage like he's being chased. "It won't happen again."

+++++

"You have got to calm down." Headland says in alarm,  hands defensive as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. Draco's certain his mind healer is using the desk as a buffer. 

"Don't you tell me to calm down!" Draco wants to throw something. He waits when people try to soothe him out of a proper rage. "I told you there was a problem! These pointless dinners are only making things worse!"

"What do you mean, worse?? Everyone I've spoken to only has positive things to say about you!"

Draco snorts. "I'll bet! Does it mean more to you that they're happy as long as I'm miserable?" Draco swipes a small bowl of Bertie Bott's  with the back of his hand, relishing the way they scatter across the floor. "Don’t you understand? Being nice is exhausting!" 

Headland spells the jellybeans into his wastebasket. "Of course it is, Draco," he says, exasperated. "Anyone can be nasty. it doesn't require any effort, just ignorance."

"I'm aware," Draco snarls. "But that still doesn't explain why Harry Potter’s been the guest of honor at every supper I've attended, despite your assurance that the guests are chosen at random! You had to know something like this would happen eventually!"

"I'm not the one who plans the table settings!" Headland stops frantically flipping through his planner to look up. "Wait. Something like what? What happened, Draco?"

"Oh no you don't."  Draco narrows his eyes, his voice dripping with venom. "You said you don't plan them. That sounds like you know who does. Tell me at once!" 

"Draco, honestly, I don't know! I get my orders through the Aurors and--"

Draco fling the door to Abernathy's office open and almost collides into Harry Potter, who jumps back as if he's seen a ghost. The color drains from his face as he looks at him, eyes wide. "Draco."

"What." Draco closes his eyes, inhaling and exhaling rapidly. "Are, You. Doing. Here."

"I-. I was passing through." Potter won't meet his eyes.

Draco feels something inside him wither. "Right." He steps around Potter and stalks away, ignoring the way Opal tries to flag him down. He's almost to the elevator when his arm is yanked back.

"Draco, wait."

"Stop following me, Potter! I mean it, I'm liable to do something I'll regret!"

"So I'm Potter again?" Draco whips his head around. Harry's eyes search his face. "Not Harry?"

"At the moment, you're nothing to me." Draco swallows thickly. Potter has stepped closer now. The elevator can't come fast enough. "It doesn't matter anyway."

"You don't believe that." He can feel Potter's warm breath on his face now, the way their torso brush when Draco tries not to sway. He's too close. "It matters to me," Potter whispers, looking up at Draco from under his lashes.

Draco takes a shaky breath. Their lips barely brush, nothing like the last time they kissed, and yet he feels arousal shot through him, flooding his body head to toe with promising heat. "Stop," he breathes against Potter's lips, "I can't."

"Draco..."

The elevator dings. The doors spring open, but neither one of them steps back despite the interruption. Potter closes his eyes, leaning his forehead to Draco's temple. He allows it until the doors slide shut again, leaving them alone in the corridor. Then he pushes Potter back.

"I have to go." He pushes through the door to the stairs and melts into the flow of witches and wizards moving up and down the steps. Potter doesn't follow.

++++++

Draco spends the rest of the week amongst his plants in the garden. He digs in to the dirt and plants flowers beds, pulling weeds until his body is left sweaty and aching as the sun sets each evening. Some mornings his mother joins him. She doesn't say anything as she crouches next to him, lovely in her sunhat and apron, and they work in that comfortable silence. Theo rides Persephone around the property line and even offers Draco a turn, such a rare offer, that Draco becomes stricken with the realization that his wound is bleeding onto everyone in the house.

Auror Abernathy fails to make an appearance on Wednesday for Draco's weekly mind healer appointment, which doesn't much surprise Draco, but clearly comes as one to  his mother. She usually prepares tea in the parlor for the occasion, quietly jovial in her own way. On this day she sips her tea silently around a frown, shaking her head when Draco asks if she'd like to join him in a game of chess, opting instead to gaze out the window. 

Thursday sees Longbottom sending an owl alerting Draco of his availability to visit, should Draco still have a desire for him to take a look at the apple trees. Draco does. 

Theo invites himself along, and the three of them spend the afternoon in the orchard, where Neville shows him a potion formula that clears the yellow mildew from their trunks, instantly brightening the apples that are weighing down the branches. Draco climbs -- he's always adored climbing, sitting up in the trees to survey all that he could see -- and at the end of the day sends Longbottom home with an entire burlap sack of gold, silver, fuji, and red delicious. Even a few strips of bark, so that Longbottom can show a friend interested in examining the magical properties within.

Friday arrives to find Draco sitting in the Malfoy Library, pretend to read another issue of _The Quibbler_. There's a photo of Potter looking distracted in his training robes, gazing past the camera as someone shakes his shoulder, trying to get his attention. His glasses are smudged.

Draco snaps the newspaper shut and tosses it into the fire, which roars a brilliant green.

"Draco? Answer your floo, you sod, I'm not down here for my own health." Blaise's head appears.

"Blaise?" Draco scrambles out of the chair and falls to his knees in front of the fireplace. "How are you getting through, our floo is monitored!"

"Please don't underestimate me." Blaise sniffs. He mouth transforms into a smug smile. "We only have about ten minutes, so Luna and I are coming through. Step back."

"Wait— what?"

Draco scuttles back as the flames burst a brilliant green once again, Lovegood stepping out of the fireplace. She moves aside and Blaise steps onto the hearth, brushing near-invisible soot from his rather appropriately coloured charcoal blazer.

"Blaise tells me you've been feeling down." Lovegood’s smile is soft and as she leans down to brush Draco's shoulder. "He's right. There’s a bit of Pogrebin hair on your jumper."

Draco checks his shoulder, brushing for the hairs he can’t see, before her words register. "A pogrebin?"

"Oh yes," Lovegood says, her ridiculously oversized earrings swinging as she nods. "I suspect he’s been following you for quite some time now." She turns to Blaise as she straightens to stand tall once more. "We should check the hall for rocks before we go, just to be safe."

"Of course my dear," Blaise says smoothly, and it doesn't sound as even half as patronizing as it should. "Right after we straighten Draco out."

Draco sits up slowly. "What have I done now?"

"Nothing that I blame you for. " Blaise glances around the room, perching himself on the edge of Draco’s abandoned chair. "Potter has nothing to do with the two of you running into each other all the time."

"And how do you know that?" Draco crosses his arms.

"Have you ever stopped to consider this from the other direction?" Blaise props his elbows on his knees. "Potter only joined Squill & Spoon the week before you did. Since his first supper with you, you continue to show up in his rotation like clockwork."

"How horrible for him."

"That's not true," Lovegood shakes her head. "Harry's been looking forward to it every week. He told me so. I knew you kissed before Blaise told me."

Draco stills, heart thumping. He turns to Blaise. "He told you?!"

"He didn't have to," Blaise scoffs. "Do you have any idea how obvious either of you are? I saw your faces when you got out of that carriage. Your hair was a mess and Potter looked like a sad crup. I asked around and Luna confirmed he's been pouting all week. Like you!"

Blaise stands. Lovegood does as well, wandering around the room to check under the chaise and behind the side tables. Draco assumes she's still on about the rocks.

"Draco. Go tomorrow. Talk to Potter. I can tell you with certainty that he'll be there." He flicks his wand in a quick tempus. "We have to go before Robards gets back to his desk. Come on, Lovegood, I'll treat you to one of those Beetroot drinks you enjoy so much." He catches Draco's eye over Luna's shoulder and shakes his head.

"Be well, Draco," Lovegood says, darting forward for a quick hug. Blaise grabs a handful of floo powder off the mantle and throws it into the fire. "Ministry of Magic, Head Auror Gawain Robards office." 

They step into the fire and are gone, leaving Draco in the middle of the floor, alone with his thoughts.

++++++

Abernathy is late. Draco paces the foyer, stopping every few turns to pull a curtain aside and gazing out into the darkness. The invitation that arrived for tonight's dinner, Draco's fourth, advises he dress for bed. It's a bit strange, but Draco has learned to go along with it. He pulls the sash of his silver robe tighter, letting the curtain fall back into place.

Draco doesn't want to be late, tonight of all nights. What if Potter thinks he's scared him off? Or that Draco doesn't want to see him?

"Darling," His mother sweeps into the room. She's holding a piece of parchment, her face apprehensive. "This just came for you. It has a ministry seal."

Draco grabs it  out of her hand, eyes skimming the words. The tension that has his shoulders pulled taut evaporates. "It's Abernathy. He says to go without him. He was called onto an assignment and couldn't find a replacement in time." 

"Oh." Draco hands the parchment back to his mother, who lowers herself onto the stairs. "I see."

Draco sags. He's been so caught up in his own drama. "Mother, I'm sorry. I'm sure he's fine. We can send Coopey to check on him."

She nods, a wane smile on her face. "I know. Don't worry about me. I just want to make sure you'll be alright. Run along now, it's almost seven."

Draco nods. The Abernathy's letter includes the necessary provisions. The location spells are temporarily lifted. Draco walks out onto the front lawn, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

+++++

He's at Hogwarts.

Draco turns several times in place. Judging from the view he must be in one of the towers. He can see the night sky, stars spread across the dark like spilled salt.  He feels his chest twinge. It's not the Astronomy Tower and he's so glad, his knees feel weak. He doesn't know if he's ready to handle that just yet, even after almost three years. 

"Karrey?" says Draco, voice echoing around the empty room. The elf appears right away. He has an old-fashioned night cap on his head, crooked jauntily to the side.

"Mr. Draco is late. Karrey thought he would not show."

"You could have come and gotten me, you know."

"Karrey is not allowed to visit Malfoy Manor without express permission. He is the one asking the auror to let Mr. Draco come."

"You asked?" Draco vaguely registers that they're heading towards the corridor that leads down to the seventh-floor. He stops short. "Where are we going?"

"Karrey is taking Mr. Draco to meet the others. They is in the Come and Go Room."

They reach the familiar tapestry, which Draco takes his time examining, chewing his lip. In a lot of ways, this is far worse than the Astronomy Tower.

Karrey opens the door and indicates Draco should pass through. By route, he pulls out his wand and hands it to Karrey, who has yet to produce his box. He fumbles with Draco's wand, almost dropping it, before recovering. Karrey's bat-like ears stand to attention. "Mr. Draco..."

Draco walks into the room, his eyes immediately seeking Potter out amongst the many, many cushions spread across the floor in a layer so thick, there's no stone to be seen beyond them. Potter sits crossed-legged, wearing a Cannons t-shirt and a pair of modest boxer shorts. Draco's eyes roam over his exposed calves and forearms, the latter flexing enticingly as Potter reaches forward to grab a handful of popcorn.

"Potter," Draco greets, and his voice sounds high in his throat. He swallows, tries again. "We have to stop meeting like this."

"Malfoy. Nice pajamas."

Draco looked down at his silk pants and matching top, both in a silver that matches his robe. The pants are a bit short and he's conscious of how knobby and childish his ankles must look, out on display as they are.

"Don't make fun of me, o chosen one. I'm not the one in that shirt," Draco says, nodding at Potter’s chest. "Let’s talk about your far more amusing preference for underdogs that seems to extend to your supporting the worst team in the league."

"And what team do you go for? I suppose the Wasps are more your speed."

"Their beater is best in the league, but I don't like him much. Bit of a show-off." Potter's eyes widen and Draco feels himself blush. "Their new seeker could use a bit of work," he says quickly, "but their average hasn't dipped yet and they're on track to qualify for the finals."

Potter settles back onto a cushion and stares. Draco’s breath quickens. Under Potter's ardent gaze, the flush spreads from his face and down onto his neck, an unflattering shock of red that contrasts with the silken silver fabric at his chest. With the way he’s got his gaze fixed so utterly on Draco, there’s no way for Potter to miss it. Still, Draco can’t bring himself to demand that Potter stop, insist he attend elsewhere. Draco likes being looked at when it’s Potter doing the looking. 

"Have you been to any games this season?" Potter jerks his head at the empty cushion beside him. There's really no way to assign seats tonight.

"Not yet," Draco says as he sits and stretches his legs out in front of them. "The terms of my parole doesn't particularly allow for recreational activities."

Potter's nose wrinkled. "But you're here?"

"Special pardon," Draco says it  quickly, as if that might make Potter less inclined to discuss the specifics of his situation. He take an equally hasty and large gulp from his orange juice. "Ugh!" he sputters, juice dribbling down his chin. He hadn't realized the elves had made cocktails. His throat burns as the alcohol goes down. 

"Careful. I should have warned you, they're a bit strong. I don't know what it is about house, elves but they have a much stronger tolerance than the rest of us."

Draco scowled. "You don't say."

"Well, well, well. What have we got here?" Pansy Parkinson settled down on a cushion across from them, dressed in a skimpy red nightie that failed to leave much, if anything, to the imagination. Draco observes Potter's eyes as they run a quick glance down the length of her body and he shoots Pansy a hateful look.

"Hello, Pansy." Potter has stopped addressing Pansy by her last name quite a while back, but he was still as cautious as ever around her. It seemed to be a mutual understanding between them that only served to confuse Draco.

"You just happened to be assigned here tonight, did you?"

Pansy doesn't even blink. "Darling, I told you before that I was thinking about joining this supper club. And your experience has been going so well, I figured, why not? Obviously we were going to run into each other sooner or later."

"But tonight?" Draco emphasizes. He knows perfectly well after his last talk with Parkinson, there's no way her turning up is a coincidence. Who did she have to bribe to get the invite and why the hell hadn't it worked for Draco after pressing into Headland?

"Fate is a mysterious thing. Besides, I'd regret missing a chance at seeing you in those darling pajamas. It's been so long, don't you usually save them for special occasions?" Pansy turns to Potter, scooting closer to elbow his side. "Whenever I drop in on him, he's in his pants and jumper, stuffing his face with shortbread cookies and pouring over star charts. I'm going to report him to the BNSC."

"Shut up," Draco growls out, mulishly wrapping his arms around his knees.

"Harry?"

They all turn their heads to watch Weasley as he exits the fireplace, dressed in plaid pajamas that match obnoxiously with the orange shade of his hair. The entire effect is eye-searing, Weasley intolerable to look at for more than a few seconds at a time.

"Ron!" Potter laughs, smiling so wide that his teeth are on display, brilliant white and a little crooked. Draco’s alarmed to realize how endearing he finds it. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same, mate!" Ron glances at Draco and Pansy, his smile dimming a bit before he focuses back on Potter. Without a word Potter scoots a bit to make room for Weasley on his other side, so that Draco is forced to set directly across from him and complete their little square. A low table is set the middle of their cushions, and it produces another mimosa, an empty coffee mug, and an entire tea setting in front of Weasley, waiting for him to make his selection, though Draco suspects the uncultured glutton may partake in them all.

"I didn't think they'd let us be in the same group. Thought it'd be a conflict of interest."

"They're generated at random," Draco says, entering the conversation with forced calm. "Or so I've been told." He shoots Pansy a pointed look.

"How'd you manage to get Granger to let you off your leash for a night?" Pansy takes a delicate sip from her tea. She's charmed her lipstick so that it doesn't leave so much as a speck on the rim.

"Hermione's been busy. She's got things going on at the Ministry and then there's the thing Harry asked her to--"

"Aren't we missing someone?" Potter interjects loudly, doing an abysmal job of trying to change the subject or lose Draco's suddenly piqued interest. Pansy's eyes light up in a way that says she scents blood as well.

"They'll be along. Tell me Potter, what sort of project is the golden trio working on now?"

Draco wrinkles his nose. Honestly he wants to curse whoever came up with that term. As if Potter and his friends aren't well known enough without the ministry stroking their egos.

The thought of stroked egos makes Draco think of other things. He subtly rearranges himself, spreading his napkin over his lap. His shoulder bumps into Potter, and Potter turns to smile at Draco, bumping him back. Weasley distracts Potter’s attentions away with a tray of bacon; Draco silently curls his fingers into fists under the table, inhaling through his nose.

"Mimosa?" Pansy holds the pitcher out, looking skeptical.

"I’m perfectly fine, thank you." Draco finishes his glass of water. He doesn't want to get drunk tonight. If anything's going to happen, he wants to be sober so he can remember it.

"Are you? You look a bit peaky." Pansy nods to Karrey when he appears and begins heaping scrambled eggs onto their plates.  "Should I say distracted?" 

Draco picks up his fork. "If you already know, you shouldn't say anything at all."

"Draco, really. Don’t be boring."

"Just leave it alone, would you?" Draco takes an angry bite, a sour expression on his face that transforms the moment his mind registers the taste of the eggs. They're perfectly cooked fluffy and light, the perfect amount of salt. Bless these bloody house elves. "I'll have to proposition Karrey if he keeps this up," Draco says around a moan.

Pansy leans in, whispering under her breath. "I think there's someone who wants to proposition you first."

Draco's eyes find Potter's, who colors but, again, does not stop staring.

There's no way he's going to be able to eat like this. He hasn't the stomach for it. Licking his lips, Draco stands. "I need some air." His feet sink into the pillows as he walks a path across the room to the door. Alone in the corridor, Draco leans his forehead against the cool stone and sighs.

"Are you alright?"

Draco huffs a small laugh. He knew Potter would follow him. He was counting on it.

Opening his eyes, Draco shakes his head. "I can't eat. I'm not hungry." Not for food, at any rate.

Potter nods. His eyes seem to burn in the near-darkness, a single, lonely torch the only source of light. Shadows play across his face as he moves closer to Draco. "I know what you mean."

"Do you?" Draco turns now, shouldering the wall. "Because you looked like you had an appetite a few minutes ago."

"I never said I wasn't hungry." Potter leans in, brushes his nose against Draco's jaw. Nipping small kisses along his neck. Draco shivers, pressing against Potter's chest. "Let's go back to mine."

"Our wands," Draco says, stifling a moan. "And Abernathy, he'll--"

"I'll explain to them later, I promise." Potter buries his face in the crook of Draco's neck, running a hand down his arm to find his hand, lacing their fingers together. "But come with me."

Draco nods. There's no use in pretending he'd say no. "Alright."

+++++

Sliding to his knees, Harry tugs down the silky material of Draco's pajamas and Draco kicks them aside. Harry runs his hands over the skin of Draco's thighs, the slight callouses making Draco shiver, even as heat gathers in his gut. Harry parts his lips, takes Draco's prick into his mouth. Draco curls a hand in his hair, tightening his fingers when Harry hums with approval.

"Fuck," he breathes, watching Harry from under heavy-lidded eyes. Draco brings his hips up. "Do you know how good you look?"

In response, Potter sucks harder, groaning around Draco's cock as he takes him deeper into his throat. He pulls off to run the flat of his tongue along the underside, to tongue at his slit. Draco sways on his feet, a throaty moan escaping him as he steadies himself against the wall with his free hand. 

Draco guides Potter back down onto his shaft, his head bobbing eagerly as he sucks from root to tip. He brings a wandering hand up to brush over Draco's balls, give them a light squeeze, and Draco shouts, rising onto the balls of his feet. He feels the familar pressure building, feels his cock throb warningly in the wet heat of Potter's mouth.

Not yet, Draco scolds himself, panting. Not yet.

As if he can hear him, Harry pulls off and sits back on his haunches, chest rising and falling. Sweat slick hair stick to his forehead, his lips deliciously plump like Draco's cock is all he could ever want.

Draco shuts his eyes, grips the base of his prick to bring himself back down.

When he opens them again, Harry holds his eyes, hooks the elastic of his boxers beneath his balls, drawn up tight to his body, in order to take himself in hand. He strokes once, twice and before Draco can think, can process what he’s doing, he’s down on his knees, crawling towards Potter and pushing his hand away.

He can feel the way Potter's cock pulses in his grip. He curls his fingers and squeezes. Potter throws his head back, hissing as he nods helplessly. "Nngh, please..!"

Draco leans in, noses along Harry's shaft, nuzzles his balls. Potter's smells of clean sweat, musk, arousal. Slowly he drags his tongue along the vein on Potter's underside, presses his cock onto his clenching stomach, wet with slick. "You like that, don't you?" Draco murmurs into his skin.

Draco flicks under Harry's hood before swallowing him down, down, down. Harry's hands find their way into Draco's hair, guiding him up and down at an increasingly frantic pace. He moans as Potter bucks his hips, swallows noisily around him until Draco pulls off with a wet pop. He adds his hand, stroking, twisting his wrist with every downstroke until all Harry can do is moan.

Draco wants to touch himself, needs the friction -- but more than that, he wants to see Harry’s face when he comes, wants to swallow him down, Harry's warm spunk filling his mouth, and then Harry shouts and and it’s happening, warm and sticky over his tongue, dribbling down his chin.

Harry throws an arm over his eyes, gasping, and even then Draco doesn't stop, sucking and lapping until Harry has to push him away, his arm trembling. 

Draco grabs Harry's wrist and pulls it towards his aching cock. A few strokes and he’s spilling over Harry’s fingers, thick strips, and Draco wants to cry, he’s so grateful for release.

Harry rolls onto his side and brings his hand to his mouth. Slowly, he licks Draco's come from his fingers, and it’s so hot that Draco feels his cock give a weak twitch of interest. If he had his way he would do it. Draco wants to push Harry down and rut inside him, bury his cock into his arse until they both black out. But for now, he settles with kissing Harry hungrily, the taste of his come still on Harry's lips.

 

+++++

 

Hours later, after a late-night snack and another round in which Draco straddled Harry and rode things out to great success, they feel across Harry's bed, sleepy and sated. The post-orgasmic bubble they share has lead to the usual vulnerabilities, but there's only one question Draco has had on his mind for weeks now.

Gathering his courage, Draco stares up at the plaster ceiling. "Harry," he murmurs into the dimly lit room.

"Mm?" Harry slides a warm hand under Draco's pajama top to idly run it over his flank.

"Why didn't you ever write me back?"

The words hang in the darkness between them, and true to form, Draco rushes to fill to silence.

"At first I thought it may not have reached you. So I wrote another. And another. But I--" Draco wants to throttle himself for how idiotic he's being. "I just thought if you'd gotten them, you would have written back."

Harry's hand on his body has stopped moving. It feels heavy on Draco's side, the digits of Harry's hand molding themselves to his skin as his grip tightens ever so slightly. "I wanted to." His voice is thick. Harry coughs to clear it. "I started so many times. Then I told myself it we were ever going to apologize to each other -- really apologize -- we'd have to do it in person."

Draco rises onto his elbow. "You don't own me an apology, Harry."

He shakes his head. "I do. We were both awful to each other. I didn't know any better. A lot was happening." Harry chokes out a laugh, but there's no amusement to it. "Besides, we didn't we just hate each other. We hated each other's beliefs, families, friends... you wouldn't believe the amount of times Hermione had to talk Ron and I down."

"If it helps, I don’t hate Weasley anymore," Draco says, rather dryly. "He's actually a bit of a laugh once he's got a drink in him. But we're never going to be best mates, you know that. After I wrote those letters, met with all those people... well, I never thought it would be easy, but I didn't exactly think it would be this hard either." He lies back, tucking his hands under one of Harry's fluffy pillows. Harry says nothing, settling back to watch Draco's face. "I'm trying."

Harry nods. "I know you are. It's okay."

As strange as it was, those simple words were really all Draco needed. He knew he could trust the words Harry was saying, because he never had been one to say or do things he wasn't genuinely feeling. It was a wonder, that kind of truthfulness wasn't as suffocating when it came from him -- chalk it up as another form of Gryffindor recklessness, always having his emotions on display.

"For the record, he doesn't hate you either. But he does think you're a prat."

"Well the feeling’s mutual, so perhaps we're not as different as you'd think."

"That doesn't mean I want to kiss him or anything, though. He's not as handsome as you."

Draco's cheeks flush deeply. "Not many are, I'm afraid. You should count yourself lucky, ensnaring my affections is quite a feat, even for the likes of Harry Potter." 

"I think I'd have managed it eventually," Harry says smugly. "Given our history."

"Yes, yes, you're very noble and heroic," Draco laughs, rolling his eyes. "Let's both be grateful it's not the other way around. Pansy, Blaise and Theo have been pushing me towards you for years. Now that I've finally managed it, I'll never hear the end of it."

But of course it doesn’t last. Nothing does, in Draco’s life, for good or ill. "Did your friends put you up to this?" Harry asks, his brows drawn down in disapproval. 

Draco goes very still. Weighs his options. "The suppers?"

He feels Harry draw away from him. "This, Draco," he says, rising up onto one hand to stare down at Draco, eyes glittering dangerous. "What we're doing right now."

Draco feels the anger spread through his bones. Tries to clench his jaw against the nasty words that still manage to escape. "You mean the way yours did? Thought you’d solve all my prejudice if you put my prick in your mouth?" 

"I suppose you think it’s nowhere as bad as trying to use me as your arm piece. Like my friendship is some kind of badge of honor!"

"What friendship? You said yourself: we're not friends!" 

"Which suits you fine enough, since you’re too cowardly to do anything but play games! You assume everyone else is too. I wasn’t trying to lie to you!"

"Ha!" Draco laughs, scornfully. "Because you were so honest about skulking around my Mind Healer's office! Making vague excuses when I ran into you! Honest, _noble_ , Potter!"

"I wasn't spying on you!" Harry shouts back, sitting up. "Everything isn't always about you, believe it or not! Have you ever considered that _I_ might need to talk to someone??"

"So why couldn't you tell me that?" Draco leaps off the bed, running a furious hand through his hair. "I wouldn't have judged you! I'm seeing the same fucking Mind Healer if you hadn't noticed!"

"What difference would it have made, Draco?" Harry's expression is resigned. "You'd still think I was lying to you."

"It doesn’t matter. I should have expected it." Draco rummages for his clothes. "You weren’t interested in me. How could you be, the great Harry Potter, debasing himself to bed a Death Eater?"

"You aren’t a death eater anymore!" Harry shouts, sitting up so that the sheets pool into his lap.

"I’m not a Slytherin anymore either, but that’s still a problem for you!" Draco rounds the bed, pajama bottoms in hand. He thrusts his naked arm under Harry’s nose. "Look at it. It’s there. It’s never going to go away." He yanks his arm back to tug on his pajamas, wrestling with the ties when they knot. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he has to stay here another minute. "Someday you’re going to have to accept it. Or not. Fucking hell!" Draco gives up and pulls on his robe.

"Draco, stop."

"You know, I’m almost relieved to know you’re as hypocritical as I am. Climb down from your fucking pedestal for once."

"I didn’t ask anyone to put me there! Least of all you!"

"I’ve been telling you you’re ordinary for years! Then you actually do something that can’t be denied — you save my life twice — and you don’t want anyone to acknowledge it?!"

"I don’t want to be infallible! I make mistakes, Draco!"

Draco sighs. "Yeah." He can’t even look at Harry right now. One of his loafers is under the bed, the other by the door. "So do I."

"You’re leaving." Harry’s face is in shadow, his voice flat. The mattress creaks under Harry’s weight as he stands. "Is that really what you want?" He’s all warm skin and sleek muscle, the sheets forgotten on the bed.

Draco swallows hard. "I don’t know what I want."

"I think you do."

He shrugs. "It’s not up to me."

+++++

 

Sunday is spent in bed. It’s an opportunity for Draco to catch up on his sleep, to watch the dust mites dance in the beams of sunlight coming in through his window. He thumbs through the books on his nightstand but they don’t catch his interest, tries parting his hair several different ways in the mirror, picks out several of his pristine robes to be sent to the tailor for minor infractions.

In the evening he sits with his mother in the parlor and allows her to tell Draco about his father’s condition. It keeps his mind from wandering, from watching the clock when it reaches seven and he hasn’t heard a word.

By Wednesday he’s picked all the fruit in the orchard, re-soiled all the pots, and has pulled all the weeds from between the blooms. He changes the spell work on the fountain so that the spray is iridescent, light illuminating the roses it blooms at night, petals floating on the water. 

Pansy comes to visit. Theo helps him at one point. Sits quietly with him. Offers to ride Persephone around the clearing. The house elves make him s’mores without being asked. Abernathy brings him the next book in the mysterious series he’s been half reading.

It’s suffocating.

Maybe he won’t go on Saturday. It’s the night before Potter’s birthday, so it’s unlikely that he’d be there. On the other hand, what if he is there and Draco is not— would he take it personally? He certainly wouldn’t come looking for him, Draco scowls.

Well it’s not really like he had a choice. Draco tried asking Headland and Abernathy about taking a weekend off, and had been told it would have to be an extreme circumstance, which would be nothing short of dying or kidnapping the savior and keeping him in this house.

Draco goes still. Maybe? It is almost Potter’s birthday. Certainly friends celebrate those types of occasions together. And if he can’t move freely, it doesn’t mean that Potter can’t. He’s allowed to break all kinds of rules. In his pocket, Draco fingers the gold watch. 

Maybe he can still get what he wants.

+++++

The thirty-first of July finds Draco sitting at the Manor's kitchen table, staring out the window. The sky outside is a fiery orange turning blue, bleeding into the night. It reminds Draco of the night at the conservatory, the night he'd first kissed Harry Potter.

Draco examines the spread before him with a critical eye. It'd been difficult to put together, even with the entire network of people he'd reached out to. Somehow he'd been able to track down more of those horrid frozen pizzas, using a strange telly box Chang said muggles were crazy about. Neville had helped him track down the ingredients used for Potter's favorite dessert, and strangely Weasley's mother, through Weasley, had shown him how to make it. In another twist of fate, it was Romilda Vane who'd helped him track down a box of crazy straws, and Lovegood who'd known just what to do with the information he'd sent her.

Opening that morning's copy of _The Quibbler_ , Draco flipped to the section he knew would be there. In place of Squill & Spoon's advertisement, was a letter. An apology sent over a year ago. And along with that letter, an invitation.

At the end of the summer his house arrest would be over. He's already decided he's going to continue seeing Mind Healer Headland. He's going to warm up to Auror Abernathy's constant presence in his home. He may even continue weekly suppers with Squill & Spoon.

But tonight, the decision isn't in his hand. He doesn't regret taking those first steps. Sending that first letter. He never did.

The air prickles. There's the sound of fabric rustling. Footsteps steps coming down the hall.

Draco stands.

Harry enters the kitchen, a copy of _The Quibbler_ clutched in his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](https://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/156499.html).


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